


Made Man

by OfScarletLetters



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigars, Cock Warming, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Misunderstandings, Overstimulation, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfScarletLetters/pseuds/OfScarletLetters
Summary: Gil narrows his eyes and purses his lips, his mind going through the roulette of how close his gun is to him, and how no one would be able to hear the gun go off if it did. He’s not hasty; it’s close enough to reach for without having to move from his very comfortable spot. “I suggest you think long and hard about what you’re going to say next. Don’t forget whose turf you’re on.”
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	Made Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannah_BWTM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/gifts).



> To [Hannah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM) who deserves the world and more - I hope this gift is enough to brighten your day! You are worth more than you know; this is just a little something to remind you how much I appreciate you and your kindness.

The ambience feels like it’s straight out of a vintage movie.

Sleek furniture throughout the room, browns and golds to offset the black on the walls and the chandeliers that hang from the ceiling, dazzling under the low lights. Emerald table lamps on every booth lined with the most expensive wooden tabletops, gold encrusted lines underneath the resin, circling the sides in one giant loop.

Smoke is just another amenity. Floating between the tables and the chairs, through the lungs of every person with a bolstering disposition, soaking through the green fabric of the pool table, and circles the rims of every opened bottle of beer. Smoke is a conversation without words–the tilts and nods of heads and mouths that don’t say much, content with the silence while the other men engage each other.

Drinks fly off the shelves to the steady tune of the soft jazz playing on the stereo. Suit jackets and sleek ties are worn by the men whose rings grip their fingers, personalized pieces of legacy on their skin. They clink against the glass tumblers nestled firmly in their grasp, drinks half empty but full of the finest liquor in all of New York.

The tap of the rain against the roof enhances the ambience of the luxurious ensemble.

No women exist here. The room is full, packed with men of different stature and status. Conjured from different sections and burrows, all gathered here for something bigger than any Chief or Lieutenant could ever begin to imagine.

If it weren’t for the heavy ash in the air and the burn of the liquor down their throats, everyone would choke on the tension engulfing the room. Thick, suffocating, and incredibly dizzying, not meant to sustain the weakest of appetites. Steel drums come in handy for an event like this.

Tonight, an important meeting takes place.

Despite the array of exchanges throughout the room, every single person has their ear trained on the two men who lead the main event.

Seated in the booth furthest from the exit blocked by two muscle-thick bodyguards dressed in black suits with gold chains around their necks, are two men. Both well-respected in their corners and across borders from families in the streets to the navy uniforms that patrol their domain. Both armed yet civil, eager to reach an agreement.

“I have to say, Gil,” starts the man from across the booth. “I was pretty impressed with how you handled the situation at the docks. I’d have their heads if I caught my own guys moving product under my nose.”

Levi, the man who sips on a red between his fingers, sports an all-black tuxedo with a deep maroon button-up tailored perfectly to his body, slim with expensive cufflinks. Reds are his signature; he bathes in the blood of those who cross him or his family while never getting his hands dirty unless the poor unfortunate soul needs a lesson on the way out.

A man who was considered to be a friend up until three years ago. What became of hearty cooked meals and family traditions went up in flames and seared the memories that came with it. In those three years, neither have recovered from it.

Civility and dignity. Personal feelings are bad for business.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know how guys like that move. I have my way of keeping my men in line, and you have yours.” He sips from his glass, his razor-sharp gaze staring the man down, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Levi just puffs his chest and leans over the table, extending his arm holding what’s left of his cigar. “Personally, I know my guys would never cross me like that,” he says, clicking his teeth. “They’ve got some balls, I tell you.”

Gil huffs a short chuckle, his head ducking only for a split second. He eyes the glint off the ring on Levi’s knuckle, the silver band worth more than happiness can buy, idly wondering why it looks so familiar.

“Enough about that,” Levi huffs, grabbing his glass and raises it. “Regardless, we had a solid quarter _and_ you managed to craft one of the finest speakeasies I’ve ever seen on the east coast. Cheers, my friend.”

“Cheers to that.” The men clink their glasses in ceremony, grins across their faces as they drink to their success.

The first round of their drinks disappear and Gil orders another, chitchatting about everything and nothing at the same time, falling into the ease of a conversation that will go nowhere. It almost feels familial. The bite in his side tells him he can’t go there again, so he pulls himself from the haze and settles back into the present while Levi talks up a storm.

Gil sets his glass down. “How’s Marie? Everything good?”

Levi nods, nonchalantly plucking a cigar from the small wooden in the middle of the table. “Yeah, she’s all good. Two years. One of the sweetest girls in all of New York, I swear.” Levi lights his cigar and sits in his thoughts for a moment, probably relishing in a life Gil has no experience in. “She’s doing fine, it’s just...she didn’t deserve that. I want to find the bastard that put her in that damn chair. Blow his brains out on the pavement and make a mural out of it.”

“Well, not everyone can be as ruthless and cruel as you, Levi.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t feel like a compliment,” he muses. “What, am I supposed to just let the guy go free after what he did to her? My fiancé has a bullet right next to her spine, Gil. I care a great deal about her.”

“No, you’re right. I’m just wondering if this concern came before or after the bullet. I got word it was a private auction that took place, not that sob story you sold about getting caught outside of a club.” Gil takes another sip and runs a hand over his lap. “Consistency is key, my friend.”

Levi narrows his eyes. “You saying I don’t love my girl?”

“It’s not that,” he sighs, dropping the tumbler. “There’s no reason to lie if you didn’t have anything to do with it, is all.”

For a moment, they share strained silence. The sound of rain pelting above is drowned out by the excess noise of the room. Gil has never been the type to argue over things that are meaningless, especially with someone like Levi. Still, something else sits on the tip of his tongue; sure, this meeting is well-intended to be a trade that’ll benefit both of their families, but Gil has been thinking about this day for a long time, and he doesn’t plan on wasting this opportunity.

“We haven’t talked about it, have we?” Gil frowns with an edge of sarcasm to his tone, then shrugs, and picks up his glass to take another sip as if his words weren’t meant to pack a punch.

Levi huffs, a light chuckle void of laughter with a hint of disgust behind it. He knows exactly where Gil is going with this. His eyes glance down at the glass resting in Gil’s hand on the table, the shine of his gold band reflecting off the tumbler like it’s meant to be there. Then, his eyes travel up from the glass to the smug expression on Gil’s face, and the way his body leans into the cushions, completely relaxed.

The sudden stall in the conversation is the shot heard around the world. The lack of sound travels through the room, the quiet murmur of meaningless conversation still buzzing in every section of the speakeasy, but it’s vacant and pointless.

The men closest to the top are all here. Suits reflective of their boss with their own personal garnishes; not too gaudy to make them stand out, but there nonetheless. Knuckle braces on some, gold chains and crosses on others, all adorned with a status symbol on their person. Belts tight around the waist from the handguns nesting behind their tucked in shirts, ready to fire if things go south. The current temperature in the room suggests their embellishments might not make it into the body bag.

Levi eyes his glass again. “Didn’t take you for someone who makes a transaction so personal.”

“I haven’t. But I do think jealousy looks good on you; pride not so much.” Another light chuckle rips through Gil with the slight shake of his head. He catches Levi staring down at his lap like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “You have yours, too, you know.”

Levi scoffs and swats his hand away in the air, dismissing him without much effort. “I got my girl now; I don’t need those broads walking around my camp. I gave that up a long time ago. I don’t need to walk around with my money like some overdressed pimp. That’s sloppy, careless, immature. What kind of message would I be sending if I always need some bitch on my arm?”

“It’s about power,” Gil says with ease, and his hand drops to his lap. He takes a deep breath, then locks eyes with Levi, his expression hardening. “Pride will tear you down faster than any bum who double crosses you for a cut of your product. If you sow your seeds in the right places, people will know who you are like the back of their hand. No one’s going to give a damn about your money or who you’re flaunting; they’re going to want your head on a silver platter and the turf that comes with it–the money is just an added bonus.”

Gil keeps his head cool while he eyes an irritated Levi rubbing the tips of his fingers together as if he’s holding his tongue. He waits a moment for a meek reply. When he realizes one won’t come, he shrugs and idly sips on the rim.

“Oh, he’s doing fine, by the way. Thought you might want an update.”

Levi’s lips curl into something that resembles a snarl and grimaces like he’s tasted something foul. Not the liquor or Gil’s attitude, but he seems to have had enough of both; he swallows whatever is left in his glass and leans back against the booth, stubbornly sizing up Gil from across the aisle. Years’ worth of frustration bubble up to the surface but never spill over cool gazes and gritted teeth.

“If you don’t believe me,” Gil drawls, his eyes flickering down, then up without moving his head. “You can just ask him yourself.”

“Arroyo,” he growls, almost baring his teeth. A warning. “Don’t play that shit with me.”

Seemingly amused, Gil hums and sighs deeply. Then, he clears his throat.

“Everyone out.”

The base in Gil’s voice carries through the room without needing to shout to get their attention. Everything comes to a screeching halt. The billiards pause the petty competitions, the bartenders stop pouring from the top shelf, and muttered exchanges fizzle out into the air, abruptly abandoned. In those few delayed seconds, every man in the room spares a glance at each other to check in, silent conversations happening simultaneously, but Gil leaves no room for debate.

The room clears out in record time. Men rise from their seats and calmly adjust their suits on their way out, the billiards left how they were found, and the bartenders quickly dispose of the used glasses left on the bar and abandon their stations right behind the other gentlemen. Last to leave are the two guards standing at the door.

Gil discards his cigar on top of the ashtray and cracks his knuckles before he drops them in his lap. He tilts his head to the side with a slight raise of his brow. “You were saying?”

Levi snarls at him and slams his arm down on the table, his glass of wine rattling under the shake of his strength. “You’re a con, you know that Arroyo?”

“I’ve been called worse.” Gil narrows his eyes and purses his lips, his mind going through the roulette of how close his gun is to him, and how no one would be able to hear the gun go off if it did. He’s not hasty; it’s close enough to reach for without having to move from his very comfortable spot. “I suggest you think long and hard about what you’re going to say next. Don’t forget whose turf you’re on.”

“Dirty old bastard,” he growls, “I’ve had enough of your shit. We ain’t kids no more, Gil, we’re grown fucking men and if you have something you want to get off your chest, then say it. I’m here to make money just like you said but since you’re so fucking pissed about something that happened _years_ ago, then let’s go there.” Levi unbuttons his tuxedo and flicks it backwards, his pistol visible from where a Gil sits but Levi doesn’t make a move toward the firearm. “Right now. You and me.”

“Say his name.”

Levi stops in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

“What?” The glare Gil sends is enough to diminish the flame that threatens to disturb his lounge but doesn’t distinguish the heat from across the way. He runs his hand over his lap in slow reassuring strokes. “For someone who claims to have moved on, you’re having some difficulty over a simple name.”

He narrows his eyes at Gil, glaring, teeth clenched in explosive anger he’s struggling to maintain. Sitting up straight like he’s been caught in a lie, Levi remains still with his lips tight and his fist clenched, absolutely seething.

“Let’s not forget how I found him,” Gil says dismissively, no longer paying attention to him. He swallows the last swig of his bourbon and sets the glass down on the table with a soft clink. “You claim to treat your men like family and yet I found him discarded, bruised, and beaten like a dog and left out in the cold to die. A group of delinquent thugs have better honor than you. That’s no way to treat people who are loyal to your family.”

“Don’t try that hero shit with me, Gil. You’re no better than the rest of us, and you know better than I do about puttin’ dogs down when they step out of line.”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he cuts in, voice sharp with no remorse. “I brought you here to cut you a deal, a damn good one too. And yet, here you are, boasting about beating the one person who stood by your side when times were tough and treated you like the king you aren’t. He worshiped the ground you walked on–what sense does that make for you to throw him out?”

The tension bleeds out of Levi’s frame along with his petty anger, the pot simmering into disdain like he bit into something sour. “You’ve gone soft.”

“Sparing a life doesn’t make me _soft_ , Levi. Call it what you want, doesn’t affect me.”

“I’m not doing this shit with you.” Levi stands up and rips a fresh cigar from the box sitting in the middle of the table, ready to light it when he drops the lighter on the table and jabs the cigar at Gil, fury still fresh. “When you’re ready to talk business, you know where to find me.”

Despite his clear anger, he steps out of the booth with caution, fully aware of the precious cargo underneath as well as the sheer hell he’d catch if laid a finger on Gil’s property.

The door comes to a close, not a slam like he expects, leaving Gil alone to soak in the ruins of a trade gone wrong.

He lets out a long sigh. “I’d say that meeting went quite well. What do you think?” His hand rests on top of the mop of brown hair covering his lap, and when the air stills and he doesn’t get a response, he grips the back until he hears a soft moan of pain. “I said, what do you think?”

Patience runs thin when the head of hair takes his sweet time freeing his mouth from Gil’s lap as if he’s a desperate man in the middle of a desert, parched, humming on his way up until he backs away with a slight pop.

Like he was told, the boy stares up at Gil. “I think it went very well.”

His voice is hoarse like Gil expects it to be, unsurprised by the way his chest rises and falls from exertion while he rests his head against Gil’s thigh as his left hand rakes over his thigh in slow strokes. With big, bright, blue eyes staring up at him like Gil is his whole world, a thin piece of something close to affection wrangles Gil in and makes him want to take him home and forget about the gun just inches away from the boy’s fingers. Inches away from putting a bullet in him. He could have his entire territory in a heartbeat, but he chooses not to strike.

It’s what makes him so damn attractive.

Gil hums and runs a hand through the back of his hair. “I think so too.”

“What are you going to do about Levi?”

“He’ll be back. Just ran off with his tail between his legs because he has an ego bigger than the empire state building.” Gil shrugs, leaning back in the booth and he stares off into the shimmer off Levi’s glass just a few inches away.

A meeting that was supposed to be productive, not end in one of them storming out while a deal sits on the table. Sure, bruising a beat up ego and reducing the weak to grovel at his feet is his idea of fun, a taste of the power he’s worked his whole life to maintain, but he resents himself for letting his emotions slip so carelessly. He can’t help it; Levi used to be his number two. His chest feels heavier than it should. “He’ll come back. He always does.”

A tap on his thigh drives him from his thoughts. He looks down expectantly to find Malcolm watching him with that same look on his face that he can’t stand, reminding him that he doesn’t need to explain what’s going on in his head to be understood, cared for, _loved_. Silent moments like these stir up something he doesn’t want to decipher nor understand; he knows that attachments will only cost him in the end.

In a sea of floating bodies and stolen product, Malcolm is the one constant in all of it, and Gil hates how much he yearns for it. “What is it?”

Malcolm shakes his head and rests his hand on his half-hard cock, giving it a few languid tugs. “Nothing. Just looked like you could use a distraction.”

Gil throws his head back with a short laugh and rummages through his hair again, his soft touch stopping at the base of his neck as he squeezes and massages the skin there, lips curling in a smile as Malcolm melts under his fingertips. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Just as Malcolm readjusts his position between his legs, prying them apart with the gentle push of his palms, Gil yanks him by his hair and forces him to look up. “Not a drop on my floors, you hear me?”

Malcolm hurriedly nods, wincing. “Yes sir.”

Gil holds him there until he feels like he’s made himself very clear. The moment passes and he lets go, allowing Malcolm to readjust and move around underneath the cramped space of the table. In seconds, the warmth of his mouth engulfs his cock inch by inch until he reaches the back of his throat, practically choking himself until he needs to come up for air, swirling his tongue over the tip before he drops his head again down his entire length.

This is exactly what he needs. Gil just relaxes against the leather with a hand fisted in his hair and the other hovering over the ashtray nursing what’s left of the cigar between his fingers. Watching Malcolm bob his head up and down, stroking him in time with his mouth like his life depends on it–it’s enough to make Gil forget about the world as if they are the only ones living in it.

One more drag of the cigar, then he discards it in the tray before it before it becomes difficult to concentrate.

Malcolm hollows his cheeks on the way down until his nose brushes the tips of hair, choking himself on his cock again. Gil chuckles, actively resisting the urge to fuck his face right then and there. “Good boy,” he purrs, his encouragement seems to do wonders for Malcolm’s confidence. A sharp moan from the praise halts his movements, discreetly adjusting himself underneath the table with his palms before his hands fly back to Gil’s thighs, wasting no time devouring him.

The heat of his wet mouth makes Gil buck his hips ever so slightly, keenly aware of the warmth pooling in his stomach signaling his impending release. One swivel of his tongue over the beads of precome and Malcolm starts to moan around him, sending vibrations that are just enough to put him over the edge.

His eyes slide shut as his mind drifts along the sensations of his tongue working overtime to the lewd, wet squelch that filters through the room. Then he glances down at his lap for a split second only to find Malcolm’s big, blue eyes staring up at him, cheeks filled, obediently swallowing every inch. It’s a gorgeous sight to see.

“Fuck,” he hisses, holding onto his hair like an anchor. It’s all the warning Malcolm gets before Gil curses and pushes down on his lap and jerks his hips, filling Malcolm’s mouth as he comes hard.

His come down is short lived; Malcolm takes his hand and strokes Gil until he’s empty, licking every drop from his hand and sucks on the tip for extra measure, earning another hiss from above.

His “Slow down–” goes unheard, practically squirming to get away from him, completely overstimulated and bordering on painful. He sucks hard enough to draw a pained groan that evokes a moan from below, Malcolm resting his forearms on his thighs as he works against Gil’s writhing.

Gil instantly yanks him by the scalp while his mouth is still full with an expression that leaves no room for further agitation. “That’s enough, Bright,” he warns in a low tone, and Malcolm narrows his eyes as he slowly drags his tongue from the base all the way up to the tip and licks his lips, completely satisfied.

He takes a moment to cool down against the leather and let the miniscule twitches die down. Knowing Malcolm, he’s getting a kick out of seeing him fall apart right now, the head who owns half of New York’s underground reduced to a trembling mess because of one epic blowjob. Because of _him_. A short chuckle bubbles it way out of Gil’s chest with no real humor behind it; he’s really done it now.

“Get up.”

Malcolm quietly tucks Gil back into his pants and zips up his slacks, fastening the top and slides out from under the table and stands to the side on shaky legs. It’s no use hiding the bulge under his black slacks from Gil, seemingly unaffected by it.

“What is it?” Malcolm asks, testing the waters.

“I can see why Levi liked you so much.”

Malcolm pauses at that. What happened back then is past him, but being reminded of the man who swore to protect him puts a bit of a damper on the mood. Judging by his face, he fails to see the connection.

“Anyone can get on their knees if their life depended on it.”

Gil shakes his head. “It’s not that.” Getting up from his seat, Gil towers over Malcolm as his hand rests on his gun and the other under Malcolm’s chin, gliding his thumb over his cherry red lips while he stares into those beautiful blues he’s grown fond of. He picks his words carefully. “You’re not just a pretty face off the street. You know what you’re doing, how to do it, and I’m willing to bet you’ve got more brains than half the men I’ve ever come across in my entire life. Right hands don’t get tossed like that for just stepping out of line.”

Malcolm laughs incredulously. “You got all of that from a blowjob?”

“I’m not talking about that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve known you for three years, Bright. You’re not the only one who's observant.”

The sudden gentle touch on his face from the harsh pull of his hair is almost as frightening as staring down the barrel of a gun, beaten within an inch of his life, not knowing if he’ll live long enough to hear the pull of the trigger. Malcolm shies away from his hand but Gil stays close. “Time doesn’t mean anything,” he grumbles in the palm of Gil’s hand. “You know that better than anyone.”

Gil hums, tracing his thumb over his cheek. “I do. I also know what desperation looks like when I see it.” Malcolm makes the mistake of looking at Gil and finds a much darker aura than just moments before, caught in a trap he can’t squirm his way out of. Stuck in the lion’s den with the man who holds the keys to escape. “What are you after? Safety? Money? Power?”

Malcolm freezes. Air traps itself in his throat with his words, unnerved by what should be a simple question to answer.

Gil watches and waits for a response, searching those blues for the honesty his words won’t give. With his facade slowly disappearing and nowhere to run, Malcolm is forced to reflect on a memory he thought he buried with his name from a life before this, one he hasn’t properly mourned in the years he’s spent running and groveling.

His eyes start to sting.

_To be free._

Of course, he knows he can never say that.

A nervous laugh breaks the silence. “Why are we talking about this now?” Playing defense, he idly runs his hands over the flaps in Gil’s suit, smoothing out creases that aren't there while his eyes focus on anything but the ones watching over him. “It’s heavy stuff, you know? Too heavy after a meal like that, right?”

Gil takes the hint. He lets Malcolm mess with his outfit for a few moments without saying a word.

Gil carefully lets go and drops his hands from his face and yanks Malcolm’s body forward by his wrists, taking a quick second to drink in the startled look on Malcolm’s face before he spins his body around and presses his chest against his smaller back, trapping him between the edge of the table. “It’s easier this way, isn’t it?” His hands go back to running soothing motions up and down his arms. “I can give you a way out. All you have to do is ask.”

Malcolm scoffs. “I’m not some damsel in distress, you know.”

“I know,” Gil says, and places a kiss to his shoulders. “Still doesn’t erase the fact that he treated you like shit.”

“Can we stop talking about him?” At the hum of Gil’s response, Malcolm drops his head to leave the back of his neck exposed, and Gil eagerly takes residence there, placing light kisses and feather pecks all over the skin. Malcolm relishes in the attention, unconsciously spreading his legs to steady himself as Gil’s hands land possessively on his hips.

“Is this better?” Gil asks.

A kiss to the neck and a sigh of relief. “Much better.”

He wobbles as Gil tries to keep his hands steady and thumbs pressed into his lower back, feeling the softness of Malcolm’s ass drag over his cock as it starts to fill out again, hot and heavy for something more than just his mouth.

Malcolm’s ready to go. Itching for something he knows Gil can give him, but he’s so frustratingly slow and gentle that Malcolm wishes he were tossed around the bar like the soldiers who drink way past their limit starting fights they can’t win. An idea sparks. Something that’ll start a fire within Gil he has no intention of putting out.

“Say my name.”

Gil places a kiss on the boy’s slim shoulders and brings his hips closer to his groin, pushing him down to meet the growing bulge. “Come again?”

“From earlier. Didn’t you hear me the first time–” he sighs, craning his neck to get a glimpse of what’s behind him. He can’t help but smirk. “– _Boss_?”

A deep rumble from within Gil’s chest reverberates through Malcolm, close enough to a growl as he bites down on the soft tissue of his neck, drawing blood and a gasp from the body against his. Gil runs his tongue over the divot until the taste of copper swims in his mouth, relishing in the shiver of Malcolm’s body underneath him.

“You know,” he groans, tasting every inch he can get his mouth on, “I could kill you right now.”

Malcolm chuckles, and places his hand on top of the one sliding between his thighs. “You wouldn’t. You love me too much.”

“Who said this was love?”

Ready for a retort, Malcolm opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t make it that far. Gil’s hand cups his bulge through his slacks and palms his erection, kneading the soft skin as Malcolm’s knees buckle under his touch and squeezes his thighs shut, practically throwing his head back against Gil’s chest as he sinks. “Tease,” he chokes out into the air, the need to buck into his hand as his mouth waters.

“You’re aren’t stopping me,” Gil whispers into his ear.

“You act like I have a choice.”

“You could walk out of here right now, turn your back on me and return to your old life. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He sneaks his thumb around the zipper and quickly unzips his slacks just enough to get his hand around his cock. “To escape from all of this? To be released?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Malcolm grits through his teeth, the warmth in his gut too close for his pride to handle, and he silently prays he doesn’t actually finish in his pants. An hour’s worth of stimulation piles on so high that the mere touch of Gil makes him weak in the knees and sends his body into overdrive.

The warmth of his hand suddenly stops its trail down the slide of his pants and pulls out, an emptiness that leaves Malcolm keening with want.

Then he feels it. Not the warmth of a hand, but the cool, sharp metal of a gun pressing into his scalp, dead in the center of his skull. Reality catches up to him in an instant. Malcolm can’t tell if this is the sick, twisted game that Gil likes to play, pushing him to his limits where he has to question his loyalty, or if he has finally grown tired and no longer has any use for him.

He sat on his knees for over an hour with a cock in his mouth like he was told to; not a word, a sound, or peep from him the entire time–he was _good_. And yet, it’s not enough to quell that bout of fear that today might actually be the day.

It’s downright exhilarating.

“I could bend you over this table and put a bullet through the back of your skull. Blow your brains out and leave your body for the dogs to clean up.”

Malcolm stiffens against him. The thought of being played up until his very last moment freezes his lungs and drops his heart in his stomach. Surely Gil would let him go out with some grace and dignity, not caught with his pants around his ankles and a bullet in his brain. His tongue darts out, licking his lips, testing the uneasy waters. “Or?”

“Or,” he drags the cool metal through his hair all the way down to his neck, then presses down into his skin. The soft clink of the safety going off is louder than it should be, blowing his expectations out of the water and shatters almost every memory of Gil from his heart. Suddenly, the gun pulls away. “I can find other ways to ruin expensive tables.”

Malcolm is too keyed up to understand what he means. Luckily, Gil decides for him and flips his body around so they lock eyes, and Gil never loses sight of the fear in those beautiful blues as he hoists him up and drops him down on top of the table.

“Now, what did you say earlier?” Realization finally filters in, no longer looking like a deer caught in headlights. Gil smirks while he watches his breathing catch up to his thoughts, a labored rhythm now quick and shallow; whether it’s out of fear or excitement, Gil doesn’t really care. All he knows is that Malcolm hasn’t softened during their exchange and he has a small window of time to ruin him before people start to wonder what’s taking so long. “Spread ‘em.”

Malcolm leans back on the table and spreads his legs as wide as they go, shimmying his pants down to his ankles where they’ll stay. Gil rips one edge from his ankles and takes his stand between his legs, grabbing Malcolm by the waist and leans down in his ear once again, his breath sending shivers down his spine.

“Next time you think about calling me Boss, don’t. Do I make myself clear?”

Malcolm shudders at his authority, the ache in his cock slowly becoming unbearable. “Yes, sir.”

Gil curtly nods, drinking in the feel of the smaller body shaking beneath him as he breathes against him. If only he could savor this moment forever. “Good. I can’t promise what’ll happen to you if you do.”

“Is that a threat?” Malcolm pulls back and wraps his arms around Gil’s neck, their lips only inches apart and their lust settling like halos over their heads.

One of the hands gripping Malcolm’s hips falls between his legs and hovers, not yet giving him what he wants, then presses his thumb right against the head peeking out of his boxers. His mouth falls in a silent gasp but they never lose sight of each other no matter how much pressure Gil applies, intending on making this hurt before he takes what he wants, and Malcolm briefly wonders if this is the true nature of their relationship.

The right hand to a boss. One that actually cares.

“It’s a promise.”

What comes out of Malcolm’s mouth is delightfully obscene, no doubt that they’re the entertainment for the handful of men working the cameras, and he completely relishes in it. He’s careful of digging his nails into Gil’s suit, so he holds onto his neck for dear life. The push of Gil’s cock splits him open like nothing else, not enough spit for an easy slide but he doesn’t care; he signed his life away the day he came crawling to Gil. He can’t run, yet there’s no need to.

Malcolm’s cries of telling him to stop, to slow down, their guttural moans and groans mixed in with the steady shake of the table as tears start to fill Malcolm’s eyes from the pressure between his legs and the absolute euphoria building in his gut. Their bodies clash like furnaces in a race to blow their load first, both scrambling for every inch of the other as if they aren’t bounded by sex and relentless pleasure.

Bliss courses through their bodies. Mixes of “fuck” and “Gil” reach the ceiling as Malcolm coats his stomach and Gil immediately pulls out to add to it as he’s rocked by his own orgasm. A hand falls from Gil’s neck to the table, holding himself up as Gil milks his cock all over Malcolm, his other hand still firm on his hip.

They trade filthy kisses. Teeth clattering and tongues all in and out of their mouths, tasting each other as they come down from their high. Adrenaline buzzes underneath their fingertips, their kisses morphing into pecks and laughs over their shared mess and something too complex to say after a quick fuck.

“You’re going to be the death of me, I swear,” Gil chuckles, goatee running over his forehead after a kiss to his temple.

Malcolm happily savors the affectionate touch. “I’m surprised you kept your clothes on. It’s humid in here,” he notes, unconsciously surveying the room.

“It is.” Gil takes a breath before he looks back at the boy still trapped underneath him. He arches a brow at the dopey face staring back at him. “What?”

A warm smile crosses Malcolm’s face, his residual fears and anxieties melting away with any doubts he had in the car on the way here. He just shakes his head, “Nothing.”

Malcolm knows Gil isn’t going to buy it and Gil doesn’t have to say a word to make the point. Sticky mess and all, Gil leans over his figure and plants a soft, sweet kiss over his lips. Malcolm resumes his position with his arms over his neck and melts into his possessive touch.

Time fades to nothing until it’s just the two of them against the world, wrapped up in each other, seeking solace in a ruthless and cutthroat world only few will survive in.

Like pillars to a kingdom, Malcolm falls if the crown is to ever descend from Gil, and while they both pray that day never comes, Malcolm is genuinely prepared to join Gil in the dirt, even if it means his beloved is the one behind the trigger.


End file.
